


Everyone Needs A Hobby

by Djtmusings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker ficlet, Castiel is patient, Gen, Sam creates art, Sam has a new hobby, Sam has a secret, Winchester Communication, after spn 10.16, brotherly pranking, dean gets pranked, disturbing Hannibal Lector reference, sam has owies, serial killer statistics, spn season 10, textile arts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 14:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11648226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djtmusings/pseuds/Djtmusings
Summary: Sam has a secret - something he's working on. And it is driving Dean crazy not to know... (Cas just wants everyone to get along.) Sam thinks Dean should a) mind his own business and b) appreciate his artistic vision.Ficlet inspired by thisSeason 10 scene/gifset





	Everyone Needs A Hobby

Sam entered the bunker library in coat and scarf, sliding on his gloves. “Hey Dean, can I take the Impala into town?”

“Sure, Sam – where’re you goin’?”

“Post office – I’m picking up a package.”

Dean responded with a tilt of his head and a questioning eyebrow. Sam’s face was impassive, giving nothing away.

“What’cha getting’ Sammy? Something Private?” Dean said almost sing-song with that all too familiar annoying older brother grin spread across his face.

Sam’s lips thinned. “Do we need anything while I am out?”

Dean’s expression shifted to a leer. “I can think of lots of things we _need_." Sam rolled his eyes. "Aw, c’mon, man – spill.”

Sam huffed and turned away. “You are such a child. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“I’ll get it out of you sooner or later. You know that, right?” Dean’s taunt followed him into the garage.

 

**

Dean entered the kitchen on a focused mission for his first (and second) cup of coffee for the day. Turning from the pot, first scalding sips working their magic, he is surprised to see Sam concentrating on something spread out across the table. Not yet awake enough for conversation, he grunts a question in his brother’s general direction.

Sam looks up, nodding a greeting. “Hey Dean.” He tilts his head in consideration and seems to come to a decision.

“Can you come over here for a sec? I’d like your opinion.”

Only mildly intrigued this early into coffee, Dean comes around the counter to discover the table covered in bundles of red thread. Eyebrows high, he looks at this brother in confusion.

“Which of these two do you think is the darker red?”

Dean’s eyes drop from his brother’s neutral expression to the threads laid out on the table. He can see now that they are of varying shades, some lighter, some darker, and that Sam has attempted to lay them out a graduated pattern. His brain, however, can’t seem to process this information.

“What?”

“It’s a simple question, Dean, which of these two is darker?” Sam indicates two specific bundles pulled out from the middle of the group. “I think I’ve got the rest all sorted, but these two are giving me fits.” There’s a hint of exasperation in his voice.

Dean thinks that he should not have to put up with weird shit like this before the bottom of his first cup.

“I dunno, they both look red to me.” At his brother’s patented bitchface #3 ( _You’re a big fucking help, Dean_ ), he defended himself eloquently with, “Whut?!”

“Never mind,” Sam said in a huff as he got up from the table, two bundles in hand. “I’ll go ask Cas.”

Dean was left staring in consternation at a palette of threads spread out over where he’d normally eat breakfast.

 

**

At a yell from the direction of Sam’s room in the bunker, Castiel sat up straight in the bed beside Dean - his posture radiating concern and readiness for defense. Dean took a moment to pause Netflix before laying a calming hand on Cas’s forearm.

“It’s okay, Cas. Sam’s not in trouble.”

“How can you be sure, Dean?”

“That’s his pissed-off-at-something shout. He’s just frustrated – not in trouble.”

“Shouldn’t we go check on him? Perhaps he is stuck or trapped.”

“Nah, he’d call if he needed us.” Dean’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Fact is, he’d probably be pissed if we showed up. He hates it when he’s frustrated by something he’s working on.”

“Oh. Yes. I have observed that before.” Castiel looked questioningly over at Dean, his posture softening. “If you are sure…”

“Yeah, I’m sure Cas. Just relax and watch the movie.”

 

**

“Hey Cas, can you help me with this bandage?” Sam had entered the war room where Dean and Cas were consulting over a possible case.

“Sure, Sam.” Castiel’s forehead scrunched in a frown as he examined the simple finger end band-aid and the bleeding thumb held out to him. “What happened? You don’t usually need assistance for something this simple.”

“Stabbed myself with a needle. A-fucking-gain.” Sam’s voice conveys 4.2 tons of pure _done_. “I keep getting blood everywhere and I don't wanna get these wet.” He waves his other hand, displaying bandages on several other fingers.

Dean frowns at his brother, realizing that this was likely the cause of the shouting earlier. “What the hell, Sam? You’re practically a surgical wizard with a needle. What in blazes are you doing?”

“Sewing.” Sam’s voice was cagey. It was clear to Dean that he was hiding something.

“Sam. You know how to sew. Dad taught us how to sew on buttons when we were like _five_.”

Sam tossed his hair back from his face as Cas finished cleaning and bandaging his thumb. “I’m learning something new. The cloth is very…thin.* It’s not the same as flannel or skin.”

A series of expressions cross Dean’s face. He’s sure this has to do with the red threads from before. “Wanna share with the rest of the class?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

The brothers glare at each other challengingly. As usual, Castiel’s gaze has been following the escalating conversation back and forth between the two brothers. Rolling his eyes, he once again reprises his role as a Winchester moderator.

“Is this a _good_ secret, Sam?” At Sam’s vigorous nod, he turns to Dean, one brow raised.

“Don’t like him hurting himself, s’all,” Dean grumbles.

Cas turns back to Sam. “Do you have to use that cloth, Sam? Can you use something thicker, if that will give you more control?”

“No, Cas, I…” Sam pauses, with an arrested look. Pure mischievous delight dawning, he nods his head slowly. “Yeah, Cas, I um, yeah. Thanks for the idea. I’ll have to start over, but…yes, I think that’ll be a great help.”

“I am always happy to help you, Sam.”

 

**

“Dude, what the hell is that on your thumb?”

“It’s a thimble.”

“Doesn’t look like any kind of thimble I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s a specialty thimble, for working with thicker materials.”

“Dude. You are. So. Fucking. Weird.”

“I’m only doing what you asked, Dean.”

Dean has no clue. “What?”

“Trying not to hurt myself.”

Dean flashes a rude gesture as Sam leaves the room.

 

**

A loud banging brings Dean rushing from the kitchen to his own room, only to find Sam putting a nail in his wall with a hammer.

“Shit, Sam, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” He paused, annoyance slowly giving way to anger. “What the fuck are you doin’ to my room?!”

Sam’s grin is unrepentant. “I made you a present.” He bent down to pick up something flat leaning against the wall, shielding it from Dean’s view with his body. “Close your eyes.”

“Sammy…” Dean growled warningly. He began to step towards Sam, but was distracted by the arrival of Castiel.

“Hello, Dean. Sam. I heard loud noises. Are you two fighting again?” His voice conveyed all the worn patience of a weary parent of two toddlers.

“He’s puttin’ holes in my wall – messing with my décor!” Dean groused in moderate brotherly outrage.

“I’m sure Sam means you no harm, Dean.” His head tilted. “Is this what you’ve been working on Sam? Are you ready to show us?”

Sam flashed them a grin as he lifted the object into place over the nail, allowing Dean to make out the familiar shape of a frame and flashes of red and brown. Sam stubbornly continued to block his view, however, holding up his hand to stop Dean from moving forward any further.

“I mean it, Dean. Close your eyes. I don’t want you to see it until it’s perfect.”

At a light squeeze on his shoulder, Dean let out a gusty sigh and closed his eyes.

“You too, Cas,” Sam prompted. Castiel complied. Carefully, Sam guided both men to stand before his creation, ensuring them perfect vantage points.

“Okay, open your eyes.”

Hanging on the wall was a frame approximately 18 inches tall and 12 inches wide. Within the frame appeared a list of names and numbers carefully stitched in red thread, graduating in color from lightest to darkest. The background appeared to be a patchwork of irregular tan and brown shapes. Dean began to read the names listed.

Chester Turner     15  
Ángel Maturino Reséndiz    15  
Robert Hansen  15  
Charles Ray Hatcher    16

His eyes skipped to the end of the list:

Dean Coril      29  
Ted Bundy       35  
John Wayne Gacy     33  
Gary Ridgway    49

“Oh, my god. Dude. You freak. These are all serial killers.”

“Yep. All those who have been captured and confessed to 15 or more confirmed kills. Not including medical professionals, contract killers, or those who acted as a pair or part of a group.** These are the worst of the loners.” Sam’s voice was filled with quiet pride.

“I like how you have them listed in order by number of kills, Sam, with the threads getting darker. Very aesthetically pleasing.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

“You _sewed_ this?” At Sam’s nod, he moved to inspect the work more closely. “What…you’ve gotta be shittin’ me. Is this _skin_?!”

Sam made a rude noise. “Calf leather actually. From Cas’s idea. I had a lot of trouble with the regular fabric, but this thickness was perfect.” Sam’s grin deepened his dimples impishly. “I thought the different pieces sewed together would give it a cool Hannibal Lector vibe.”

Dean stared at his brother in horrified awe. “Why would you do this, Sam?” His voice nearly cracked with incredulity. “Why make this for me?”

“It was at your request, Dean. You said collecting serial killer statistics wasn’t a hobby and suggested I take up needlepoint. I just combined the two.” His falsely innocent face warred with the smug expression of an inveterate prankster.

Dean covered his eyes and flopped backwards on his bed. “You must be adopted. I have no brother.”

Sam turned to Cas, a hurt look on his face. “I don’t think my artistic efforts are appreciated, Cas.”

“Well, I like it Sam. I think it is quite interesting. Will you make one for me?”

“Absolutely, Cas. All you have to do is ask – just like Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> [I thought Dean was being a jerk [in this scene](http://www.demondetoxmanual.com/post/161912688342) and that Sam should get him back for it somehow. This is what I came up with. Helps that I am a textile artisan myself...with a mild interest in serial killers.]
> 
> *Needlepoint cloth is often a very loose weave, especially compared to the double or triple thickness of a flannel button placket. Sam was likely using too much force (or had purchased the wrong weave for his project.) Also, needlepoint makes you hold the cloth at very different angles than buttons (or surgery), thus leading to multiple stabbed fingers. And, of course, he wouldn’t want to get blood on the nice white cloth, now would he?
> 
> **All serial killer stats taken from [ Wikipedia here ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_serial_killers_by_number_of_victims)so please blame the crowd sourced researchers for errors.


End file.
